


you said in time the pain would pass

by uro_boros



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:56:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uro_boros/pseuds/uro_boros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boy across the street looks like something beautiful from one of your nightmares. Or, an alternate universe where Marco makes coffee, Jean drinks it, and Eren just wants them to remember already.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you said in time the pain would pass

The guy across the street looks familiar, but Marco doesn’t know why. The top of his head is bleached, sides shaved, a black messenger bag slung across his left shoulder. Marco’s never met him before, he’s pretty sure. Still, his right hand raises half way up in a wave before he can stop the action.

The guy across the street catches the motion before Marco can abort it. He gives Marco a weird look, which is understandable, because Marco has never met him and here he is, waving like an idiot.

Luckily, the arrival of the bus (ten minutes late, and suddenly a small part of Marco is grateful for that fact, even though it’s pouring, because it meant he could see  _him_ ) saves him from further embarrassment.

(He dreams of the stranger that night, and can’t figure out why the name Jean comes to mind)

—

At fifteen, Marco was in an accident that burned half of his body. The doctor told him that he was lucky to keep his right arm, after a piece of glass had nearly severed the tendons in it.

The guy from across the street the other day shows up in the cafe Marco works in. Ymir’s on order taking, so Marco doesn’t realize he’s there at first, until he gets an order for a vanilla latté, six pumps, topped with whipped cream and chocolate for Jean. He’s staring at the cup, burned fingers tracing under the name, when Ymir walks over, a corner of her mouth tilted up. “Weird name,” she says, “thought it was John at first.”

"Everyone always did," he replies without thinking about it, only for Ymir’s eyebrows to raise, a question on her face. "I don’t know why I said that."

"Are you running a fever?" Ymir asks, placing one hand on his shoulder. He feels it vaguely, the way he always has since the accident—the skin’s too ruined for anything more than a shadow of touch to get through. "If you need to go home, we can call Christa."

"You just want to flirt with her," Marco accuses her gently. Ymir laughs, leaning her hip against the counter.

"Apparently," she says, jutting her chin towards the latté in Marco’s hands, where he’s absentmindedly drawn a flower in the foam, "so do you."

—

Jean comes every day for a week. Vanilla latté, with whipped cream and chocolate—in the meantime, Marco becomes surprisingly adept at latté art.

They never talk. Half of the time, Jean shows up right as they open, looking like he spent the entire night awake. Marco wants to tell him that he shouldn’t do that, the words on the tip of his tongue but not his to say. Sometimes, when handing off the coffee, their hands touch, and Jean gives him that weird look again.

It has to be because Marco’s blushing, or maybe it’s his scars. He forgets about those sometimes, but that doesn’t mean everyone else does.

After that week, Jean stops coming altogether. Marco feels a pang in his chest, but tries to ignore it. They don’t know each other and it shouldn’t matter.

Two weeks later, Jean shows back up. Once or twice, a messy haired boy tags along. He orders his coffee black and proceeds to dump half of their sugar container in it—Jean must make fun of him for it, because the other guy always scowls, which makes Jean laughs lowly, his voice a warm, inaudiable rumble across the cafe. The sound of it settles heavy in Marco’s belly.

It tickles at the back of his mind, something he almost remembers.

—

His fingers brush along Marco’s wrist, this time when he goes to take his coffee. They rub across a burn and it’s instinctive for Marco to duck away, to tuck his hand up his sleeve.

"Sorry," mutters Jean, face wane but cheeks flushed. His fingers spasm around the sleeve of the coffee cup.

"It’s okay!" Marco is quick to assure him. His arm hides behind his back—out of sight, out of mind, he thinks. Jean keeps staring, though, and for a moment, Marco wishes desperately for Ymir to need help at the counter. She doesn’t, it’s the lull between rushes, so Marco stands there awkwardly, ashamed of himself. The feeling isn’t new, but it does feel stale. He had thought he was over it.

"How," starts Jean, voice croaky. He stops to clear it, gives Marco’s face a painful look and then stomps off.

Ymir whistles, watching him go. “What a weirdo,” she murmurs.

—

Jean shows back up again later that day, as Marco’s waving goodbye to Ymir and switching his work over to Christa. He’s waiting by the door, has been for at least thirty minutes—Ymir had nudged Marco’s side when Jean had shown up. “Ten bucks,” she had faux-whispered, “he’ll panic and leave again.”

The ten is crinkled in Marco’s pocket. As he nears the door, Jean looks increasingly harried, the twisted line of his lip firmly tugged down.

"Hello," Marco tries to greet him brightly, but the words fall a little flat. They hang between them for a beat, a second, and then Jean lets out a shaky sigh and scrubs his hand over his face and says, "This is gonna sound crazy but—", tips of his ears red.

"Do I know you?" Jean moves forward once, hisses, then rocks back, eyes wild. "God," he mutters, "you feel so familiar."

"I’m—I’m sorry?" hazards Marco. His heart pounds frantically, rummaging around in his head. 

"I just!" Jean’s voice rises, crests over a wave, breaks. "I just. I don’t know. I’m sorry? Marco, I’m sorry." 

"How did, um—my name?" His voice sounds tinny.

"I don’t know," Jean sighs again. His eyes search Marco’s face, then drop to Marco’s chest. "Your name tag?" he finishes lamely. 

"That’s not it," presses Marco. "Because I knew your name was Jean. When I saw you that day—at the bus stop, in the rain." 

Jean gives him that wild look, and then his hands are on Marco’s shoulders, squeezing hard, and he says, “Marco, do I know you? Did I…does this sound stupid, but did I hurt you?”

It’s hysteria that ends up making him laugh. He must look crazy—he feels like he’s crazy, but he’s clutching Jean back and he responds, “Of course, that’s stupid,” pausing to grab Jean when Jean, looking wounded, tries to move away, “it wasn’t your fault. Jean, it was never your fault.”

"But it was," croaks Jean. "You saved me."

"I’d do it again." Habit makes him trace the shell of Jean’s ear (ridiculous, whispers a part of his mind, who’s habit, this is the first time you’ve ever said more than his name or his coffee order). "Was your life good?"

Jean shudders, exhales, and comes apart. “It was.”

"Good," Marco murmurs. "I’m glad."

—

The messy haired boy is  _Eren, (_ of course it is and of course Eren’s memory is the most complete of all of theirs) and when Marco comes over to their apartment for the first time, he crows,  _it’s about time_ , giving Jean a triumphant look before wrapping Marco up in a hug.

He says into Marco’s ear, “Welcome home,” before launching into a graphic description of Jean’s last attempt at cooking. Jean bitches back at him, loudly, until Marco’s laughter catches itself on a sob. They both turn to him, distressed, Jean rushing over to grab his hand until Marco waves him off.

"No, no," Marco tells them, laughing and brushing his own tears aside with his thumb. "Just, some things really haven’t changed. That makes me happy."

Jean gives him that weird look, so Marco kisses it away. It soothes the lines in his forehead, even though it makes Eren loudly groan and yell  _get a room_.

Jean pulls away from the kiss to give a retort. “We used to do it in the bunk above yours in the trainee barracks, you know. Loudly,” he adds, thumb massaging an old, familiar rhythm on the juncture of Marco’s shoulder and neck. 

"That was only like twice," Marco reminds him, stretching up for another kiss.

"I hate you guys!" Eren shouts, horrified, eyes wide. He waits, possibly to hear  _it’s a joke, relax,_  but when that doesn’t come, he jumps off the couch and runs to his room. “This is my sacred space!” he yells through the door. “Don’t you dare fuck in here!”

"We should totally fuck in there," Marco tells Jean seriously after the snick of Eren’s lock, interrupting the kisses Jean’s busy pressing onto his shoulder by Jean’s answering laughter. 

"I like the way you think," Jean says fondly. His thumb catches on a scar, undeterred by the change in texture. "You know, Marco, I want to spend the rest of this life with you."

"I like the way you think," Marco echoes back to him. 


End file.
